


Opportunity comes once in a lifetime

by impossibletruths



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Busking, Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Homelessness, Orphans, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-28
Updated: 2016-08-28
Packaged: 2018-08-11 14:40:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,910
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7896595
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/impossibletruths/pseuds/impossibletruths
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s hard, stealing. Harder than playing music, though perhaps that is because his fingers know music and do not know the feeling of a cut purse or a pocketed trinket. But songs on street corners are not enough to fill his stomach, so he does what he can to survive. </p><p>And then, he picks the wrong person to pickpocket. Or, perhaps it is the right person.</p><p>(Or, how Scanlan joined Dr. Dranzel’s Spectacular Traveling Troupe)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Opportunity comes once in a lifetime

**Author's Note:**

> Scanlan mentioned something last game about being a street urchin and then I needed to write about it.
> 
> Title from "Lose Yourself" by Eminem, from Scanlan's Spotify playlist.

It’s a full two weeks before the meagre funds he finds among the rubble run out and he is faced with the choice to either starve or try his luck on the streets.

It’s not really much of a choice.

The streets are familiar, at least. Scanlan has played them before, a charming young boy with a flute and a crystal voice on the corner, busking for fun more than anything. People recognize him as they pass, and the few who know him toss him an extra few pennies for his loss, and for a couple weeks, he scrapes by.

Then the pity dries up, and the summer months come and go, and it is not enough.

The first gold and orange leaves of autumn bring desperation to his performances, and for all that he is still young, and friendly, and charming, fear tinges his songs. Now, as traders leave for the winter months and his clothes turn shabby, his flute case worn, he cannot pretend to be singing for his own pleasure, playing only to pass the time.

Now he is one of the urchins of the street, too skinny and sunken-eyed and desperate, and he hates that he looks the part, because even a bright smile and a wink cannot disguise the way his hands shake in hunger. Now, instead of drawing people in with his music, he drives them away; their eyes glaze over him, and he sees the word _orphan_ upon their lips, and he knows his time is up.

So, eventually, as the desperate and afraid do, Scanlan turns to stealing.

* * *

 

He doesn’t mean to, the first time. It’s a cool day during harvest, and he has had nothing but scraps and water for a week, and his stomach aches. Business is slow––the square is the best place to busk, or beg, but three of the older, larger boys have claimed it today, and for all his charm he cannot convince them to give it up. So he stands on an apple box three streets away, a bit of cheese in one pocket and two pennies in the other, and not even the baker will sell him yesterday’s bread for such a paltry amount. But he is hungry, an aching hunger so fierce he cannot focus enough to play, and his fingers skip notes, and no one wants to spare a token for a bad song.

He gives up, and packs away his flute with the care of a musician. It is all he has now, this and a spare shirt tucked beneath a roof tile behind the butcher’s shop with a bit of stale crust wrapped up inside it, and it is worth more to him than his life, because how is he to feed himself without his music? What is the point of trying, without his music?

Maybe, he thinks today, if he waits for the tavern to close then the innkeeper will bring him the dregs of the night’s stew. Helena is known to be kind, when business is good, and there is a merchant caravan in town tonight, so business will undoubtedly be good. Perhaps, if he is especially convincing, she will let him play inside. His stomach rumbles at the thought of all he could rake in from a few happy merchants. Maybe enough to buy some stew, instead of begging for it. Even broth and a few warm potatoes would be...

Well, honestly, he would give the shirt off his back for a few warm potatoes.

But a smell hits him before he reaches the inn, smoky and savory and his mouth waters, and his stomach contracts painfully, and before he can think it through his feet change direction, stepping with purpose towards the cart, towards the neat line of hot meat pies sitting there, the cart owner––an older man, a little slow but kind and friendly––deep in conversation with the spinstress’ wife, and before he can think about it his hand snaps up and snatches a pie from the cart, and he scuttles down the alley, flute case in one hand, prize in the other.

He doesn’t stop moving until he’s blocks away, and even then he sticks to the alley, waiting for yelling, for the sound of a chase, but there is nothing. He slides down the brick wall, flute in his lap, and cradles the pie.

It’s a small, golden-brown thing, still steaming slightly, and he pays no mind to the damp dirt soaking through his breeches, or the chill in the air, or the uncomfortable press of the wall against his back. Even his flute fades away. He has not had a meal in what feels like years. He is so hungry.

He digs in with relish as the juice drips down his chin and across his hands. It tastes like spices and warm meat and flaky pastry and it is the best thing he has ever eaten.

It is gone far, far too soon, but it settles in his belly and warms him from his ears to his toes, and for a moment he sits there in the alley, flute case at his side, and just revels in it, in the feeling of having warm, good food in his stomach. He is suddenly fiercely homesick for their little house, burned, and their little stove, broken, his mother’s cooking, which he will never have again. It burns in his chest, hot and heavy, and for a moment he cannot breath for the pain of it.

Then it passes, and he licks his fingers clean, and wipes his face, and pushes himself to his feet. It’s gone. She’s gone. He has to figure out how to survive on his own, and even with a meat pie in his belly he isn’t going to pass up even the faintest possibility of a chance to play at the tavern, and if he wants to talk to the innkeeper he needs to find her now, before dinner service begins.

But the pie sits in his stomach, and he thinks maybe, just maybe, he should put his talented hands to use doing something besides playing music.

* * *

 

The next time is the Harvest Festival, an orange and gold night at the end of the harvest season. The air smells of pumpkin and fried foods, and a band plays upon the stage, fiddle singing out over the crowd as townsfolk talk and dance and laugh with each other, celebrating another year’s end, preparing themselves for the winter. There are dozens of people, drunk and happy, and no one pays much mind to the young, talented orphan boy wandering among the crowd with hopeful fingers. But, honestly, he has no idea what he’s doing, and the most he manages to steal is one old farmer’s purse, which has six pennies and a small jar of lip balm.

At least, Scanlan thinks sullenly, he won’t get chapped lips playing during winter.

That thought chills him. Winter is a cold, hard time, and no one has coin to spare for an orphan boy during the snowbound months. Maybe he can convince Helena to let him stay in the attic through the winter, if he plays for her. He doesn’t particularly want to think of the alternatives. He has heard of men and women and children without homes frozen to death in the winter snows.

He really doesn’t want to be one of them.

At this point, though, it doesn’t look like he’ll have much of a choice.

* * *

 

It’s hard, stealing. Harder than playing music, though perhaps that is because his fingers know music and do not know the feeling of a cut purse or a pocketed trinket from a shop. More often than not he gives up halfway through, and he spends twice as much time talking himself out of trouble as he does trying to lift something. Autumn fades to winter and in that time he collects a few pennies, a couple rolls of bread, another meat pie, and once, from a particularly drunk cartographer, a new shirt to replace the one has worn through, and the one the older boys stole. But it is still not enough, never enough, and he does not know what to do.

By the time the first snow falls, he has nothing but the shirt on his back and the flute at his side, worn and in need of repair but his, and more important than anything.

The snow fills him with a new desperation, though, a constant panic that sits in his ribcage and lives there, that hovers at the outskirts of every thought, like a ticking clock counting down the time he has, and he may have nothing save his music, but he does not want to die, not here, not unknown in some town.

The fear makes him foolish.

There are travelers in town, people he can steal from without worrying about repercussions. They will be the last, he thinks. Soon the snow will make the roads impassable, and by then either he or they will be long gone.

So he watches them through the day, and in the late afternoon, when the streets are busiest and no one will pay him any mind. He puts every trick he knows to work as he makes a pass at the heavy pouch of the leader of the traveler party, projecting nonchalance as best he can. It’s a terrible idea, he knows, but he is hungry and cold and so very tired, and well, if this fails, what else has he got to lose?

So he sidles up to the traveler’s pouch, and cuts the strings free of the belt while a trio of his troupe is in deep discussion, and walks away as if he owns the places, as if he is meant to be there.

He tries to, anyways.

He makes it all of three paces before a hand slams down on his shoulder, hard enough to jar his step, and he tries to wriggle out but the grip is vice-like, unyielding.

“What,” says a voice above him, low and unimpressed, “d’you think you’re doing?”

He twists his head around, follows the line of the arm up, and up, and up, to the half-orc frowning down at him, skin weathered, hat cocked, eyebrow raised. When he doesn’t reply, the hand tightens a little, fingers digging into the skin of his shoulder.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says, denial automatic. The half-orc’s other eyebrow joins the first.

“I think you have something of mine,” he says calmly, and Scanlan’s pulse doubles because it is the ones who do not act angry who hurt the most. He knows from experience.

“I don’t know what you mean,” he persists, and thanks the gods that he can keep his voice steady, and slightly affronted. He may not know how to steal a purse, but he knows how to play a crowd, and one person is not so different, so long as he does not give himself away. The purse is heavy in his pocket, but the half-orc does not need to know that.

“Hmm,” says the half-orc. “Well, then I suppose I will have to take something of my own. Just to even things out, you understand.” With one hand still grasping his shoulder so tightly he can’t run, can’t even move, he reaches down and plucks his flute case, and Scanlan feels a spike of true panic shoot through him. The half-orc lets go of him, pushing him away slightly so he can open the clasps of his shabby case and the well-loved flute within. The half-orc looks between him and the flute as Scanlan stands there, frozen.

“Yes,” says the half-orc. “I think this is a good trade.”

“No!” he shouts loud enough to draw attention from passers-by, but the half-orc waves them away. “Please,” he says, and he hates how his voice trembles, he hates it. “Please, you can’t, it’s mine.”

“Not anymore,” shrugs the half-orc. “Unless you have something you want to give me?”

“Please, here, take it,” he says, and he holds the purse out, even though it is heavy with coin, even though it could buy him lodging for the winter, for the year even, even though it is enough for new clothes and a new case and food and safety, more than anything.

It is not worth his music.

The half-orc’s eyebrows do something funny, and an expression drifts across his face as he picks up the pouch. He looks down at Scanlan, eyes taking in his ragged hair, the shirt that is two sizes too large for him, his dirty pants, his toes peeking through the holes in his shoes. Scanlan shakes his hair out of his face and stares up and the enormous man, defiant. The half-orc’s eyes narrow, and he gestures at the flute.

“Did you steal this too?”

“Of course not!” Scanlan protests, furious. He gave the purse back, their deal is done. “It’s mine!”

“Okay,” shrugs the half-orc. “Prove it.”

Scanlan stares. “What?”

“Prove it’s yours. Play something.” The half-orc sighs and hands him the flute, carefully, and Scanlan’s hand snaps out on its own volition to grab it. He feels himself relax slightly, comforted by the feeling of the keys beneath his fingers.

“Aren’t you going to call the guard?” he asks. The half-orc shrugs.

“Not if you play me something.”

Scanlan eyes him with distrust as he brings his flute to his lips. The half-orc just crosses his arms and waits expectantly. Scanlan wets his lips and picks up his flute, carefully, running a hand along it. One of the keys sticks a little, but it was doing that anyways.

He runs a few scales to warm up, quick and light and showing off a little, and then he rolls his neck (mostly for show) and sets his shoulders (a little for show) and closes his eyes (not for show) and takes a breath, and plays.

It’s not particularly complicated, this song. It’s one of his standards, actually, an old tune, familiar to anyone who has been to a tavern in their life, ever. Popular folk music, the kind that brings in money for nostalgia and familiarity. He plays it light and tripping, and when it is over he segues directly into a ballad, slow and a little wistful, the kind of music for days around the fireplace and golden summer evenings, and only when the last note has faded does he open his eyes.

The half-orc still stands there, eyebrow still raised, arms still crossed. A few townsfolk look at him with curious glances as they pass by, but no one seems to have paid any particular mind to his music. When the orc stays quiet, Scanlan scowls at him.

“Well?”

The half-orc sighs, and uncrosses his arms. “You’ve got talent, boy,” he says, and he sounds sad as he says it. “Who taught you how to play?”

“My mother,” he says, and he’s proud that his voice doesn’t catch. Time may not heal all wounds, but it has numbed some of the pain.

“Where is she now?”

“Dead.”

“Hmm.” The half-orc stares at him again, mouth pursed in thought. “What’s your name?”

He squares his shoulders, lifts his chin. “Scanlan Shorthalt.”

The half-orc nods slowly. “Tell you what, Scanlan Shorthalt. You come work for me, I’ll give you a place to sleep and something to wear and teach you a few other ways to charm a crowd. Boy with your talent shouldn’t be picking pockets. Your fingers are made for making music.”

“Are you shitting me?” asks Scanlan, and the half-orc roars a bellowing laugh, head tossed back.

“You’ve got spirit, boy. I like you.”

“I tried to rob you,” he points out.

“And you won’t try it again.” There’s the slightest edge to his voice as he says it, and Scanlan finds himself nodding without meaning to.

“And you want me to… what, be your bag boy?”

“I want to teach you to play. Play real music, that kind that moves men to laughter and tears. Teach you how to play a room, or a crowd, or a man, as easily as any fiddle. You’ve got the talent for it, Shorthalt, I’ve seen that already. And in return, you’ll work for me, and do what I tell you do, and stop cutting purses. Do we have a deal?”

He holds out a hand as he says it, large enough to dwarf him.

Well. What does he have to lose?

It’s better than freezing out on the streets.

“Deal,” says Scanlan, shaking his hand, and it should be comical but it isn’t, it’s heavy and solemn and for a moment he can’t breathe.

Then the half-orc steps back with a laugh, and says to the halfling standing back where the half-orc left him, “Make sure there’s room for one more, Kent!”

“Sure thing, Doc,” says a halfling, and Scanlan now notices the lute case slung across his back. Scanlan looks up at the half-orc.

“You’re a doctor?”

“Only of music,” says the halfling. “Don’t ever let him try ’n heal you. Last mistake you’ll ever make.”

“Get out of here, ya ruffian,” says the half-orc, and the halfling strolls away with a laugh. The half-orc doffs his cap and bows with a broad smile.

“Dr. Dranzel,” he introduces himself. “Welcome, Scanlan Shorthalt, to my spectacular traveling troupe.”

**Author's Note:**

> find me on tumblr at [teammompike](http://teammompike.tumblr.com)


End file.
